


grasp

by ohtempora



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Creepy, Detroit Red Wings, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Control, Other, Phone Sex, Ritual Sex, Spitroasting, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10598199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: Maybe Dylan should have suspected. The whole octopus thing had to start somewhere.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [addandsubtract](https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MADDY ILU this is early but i couldn't wait to post it. birthday months are totally a thing.
> 
> thank you to gigantic and sophiahelix for the much needed help!
> 
> please, please mind the tags, especially the dubcon. further, more spoilery warnings below.
> 
> my apologies to the joe.

In retrospect, they pick a good day to do it: A true day off following an optional skate, no other activities planned, weather not quite spring.

Dylan calls Zach once he's been dropped off and he's safely back at the house, stumbling towards his own bed. His room is messy, and his legs feel like jelly. It's a good thing Zetterberg arranged for the car for him, got him home-- he doesn't think he would have been able to drive, otherwise.

Zach picks up right away. Of course he does.

“Hey,” Dylan says.

“Hi.” There's fumbling. “Shit, sorry, I'm in the library. Hi.”

Shoving at the pillow behind him, Dylan says, “No it's fine. Hi.”

Zach laughs. “You okay, buddy?”

He wriggles his toes. There are marks on his thighs and ass, his hips. Probably other places. The flush covering his face has faded, though. “Yeah. Uh. I'm like. Remember when we were in Ann Arbor and got high, and you said you were like, turned on forever?”

“Yeah.”

“Like that, but.” Dylan wiggles his toes again. “I want it.”

“It,” Zach repeats.

Zetterberg probably also made sure to be there because he knew Dylan would be like this. Fucked out and hazy. “I dunno how to say it. I mean, I'm okay, I just.”

He wants to turn over and grind his dick against the mattress until he comes. Or, even better, he wants to go back to the locker room and get back on his hands and knees.

“I did it like they told me,” he says. “I feel good.”

Zach swallows. It's audible. “Good?” he asks. “What-- Dylan, um. You told me it was a, a ritual, for playoffs. What’d they do?”

-

He goes to the Joe early afternoon on a Saturday. Zetterberg is waiting for him in the player's lot. The arena is empty, eerily so, their footsteps echoing in the hallways.

They get to the locker room before Zetterberg says anything. Dylan jolts when he speaks. Normally that kind of thing gets him a smile from the older guys on the team but Zetterberg just gives him a moment to settle before he continues.

“If you don't want to do this, you should tell me now.”

Dylan swallows. “You said you did it. And you can't tell me much.”

“Yes.”

“But you did it.”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Dylan says. He wants to know more, but-- okay.

Zetterberg pushes open the door and says, “You'll need to get on the logo.” He doesn't look surprised when Dylan flushes.

“On it,” he asks.

“It's all right,” Zetterberg says. “Playoffs are a different beast, yes?”

Dylan knows what you do in hockey, and what you don’t do, and when it’s time to ask questions. On one hand, you don't step on the logo. On the other, this is not a good time to ask questions.

“Okay,” he says.

-

“You don't need me to drive to Detroit, right?” Zach asks. “There won't be really bad traffic if I leave right now.”

Dylan shifts, tucking one leg underneath him. Part of him wants to say yes, have Zach show up and push into him, dick firm and blood-hot. Different from the tentacles. Keeping him open.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “You told me you have homework.”

“You're being weird. It's fine.”

“No,” Dylan says. It's harder to say no than it should be, but he knows he can't make Zach skip class and practice for this, especially with the tournament coming up. “Don't worry.”

“ _ Dylan _ .” Saying that was dumb. Zach's a worrier; he's generally okay at hiding it but he lets it out around Dylan. Which is nice, that Zach trusts him that much, but it's occasionally inconvenient.

“I'd tell you if you needed to worry,” Dylan amends, though he's pretty sure Zach is rolling his eyes. He lets his head loll on his pillow. “Dunno what you're thinking but the team didn't-- Zetterberg was there for me if I needed him.”

“Can you tell me?” Zach says. Zach is definitely worrying. “I promise-- you know it's just me.”  _ You tell me everything else  _ goes unsaid, but. It's true.

“It was like--” Dylan shudders again. “It was like a monster. I don't know how it-- maybe it lives in the Joe. It-- wanted me.”

"How -- you're okay now, right? It didn't want -- " Zach pauses. "Something bad."

“It wanted to fuck me.” Saying it out loud is strange. Dylan had the words for what happened, he did, but there's something base and primal in saying it. He continues, “So I let it.”

“You told me before you left that Zetterberg did it too.” Zach's voice breaks on his last word. Dylan was texting him while he waited outside for his cab to pick him up. At that point he knew bare details. Mostly he knew he didn't want to miss the playoffs his rookie year. He'd meant to pass everything off as normal.

Somehow he can't picture Henrik Zetterberg on his hands and knees, mouth open, pinned in place by a tentacle monster. But Zetterberg wasn't captain when it happened.

Maybe Yzerman did for Zetterberg what Zetterberg did for him. Dylan blinks.

“I guess that's the Original Six,” Zach says, and giggles, high and nervous. “I mean I'm glad it didn't wanna eat you but oh my god, like--”

“I feel so good.” Dylan rests his hand over the waistband of his sweatpants. He pushes a thumb underneath the elastic. Even that small touch makes him shiver. “Z, seriously, I feel awesome.”

“You sound like it,” Zach says. “I can't believe--how much can you tell me?”

“You could fuck me right now,” Dylan says. “If you wanted. You could open my door, and-- I'm on the bed, and you could-- slide right in and fuck me like this.”

“Oh my god.” Zach's voice is choked. “I'm in the fucking library, Dyl, fuck.”

“Not driving to Detroit.”

“You're making a really good case.” Zach doesn't speak for a minute, then the sound of footsteps filter through the phone. “Okay, I moved to the bathroom. I can't finish my paper right now.”

“Oh,” Dylan says.

“It's just marketing.” He can practically hear Zach's shrug. “But you're-- sure that you're-- you don't normally talk like this.”

“I'm alright. And I didn't drive.” He twists his fingers in the sheets. “Cap got me, all good.”

“Zetterberg took you home?”

“Yeah. He took me in a car.”

“I mean, I would hope you didn't walk.”

Dylan laughs. He doesn't really mean to, but. “My legs are so wobbly, man.”

“Were you at the Joe?” Zach asks.

“The locker room,” Dylan says. “Yeah. The logo.”

“Oh,” Zach says. “Wow.”

-

Dylan doesn't know what they're waiting for. Zetterberg is walking around the locker room, and Dylan is just sitting in his stall with his hands folded in his lap like it's his first day here.

“Are you a virgin?”

Zach and him have been messing around since high school, and Dylan knows that even though they spent a few months telling themselves handjobs were just buddies before realizing how incredibly stupid that was, everything that happened between them in college discounts virginity immediately.

“No,” he says. “Uh, should I be?”

Zetterberg patted him on the shoulder. “No, no. I wasn't either when it was me. Might even help.”

Uncertainty sticks in the back of his throat, but Dylan thinks maybe no more questions at all.

Finally Zetterberg stops pacing, and he says, “You'll need to undress. You can leave your clothes in your stall. I'll come find you, when it's done, but if you need anything else I'll be in the lounge.”

He leaves.

Dylan kneels. It feels wrong to be on the logo -- disrespectful, but it's for the team. It's for the playoffs. He has a sleep mask, snatched from his suitcase, and he puts it on, remembering what Zetterberg said when he first approached Dylan.  _ You won't be able to see _ . Deciding what to do with his hands is harder. It feels awkward to leave them hanging at his sides, so he clasps them behind his back, lacing his fingers together.

Clearly this is no “blood sacrifice of the virgin rookie” shit, but he's stripped naked and half-hard from anticipation, which might end up real fucking embarrassing if this turns out to be some kind of messed up prank to bring levity back into the locker room.

He waits. He waits, listening to the sound of his own breath, but he waits, and then there's a  _ slither _ .

Maybe he should have suspected. The whole octopus thing had to start somewhere.

Seconds later, it's on him. Something strange slides around his hips first, locking him in place. He can't see but for a sliver of light underneath the mask. He wonders if that's part of it, the myth, the sacrifice, that he can't see what's happening to him.

The tentacles-- they're definitely tentacles-- curl around his wrists. They're slimy, but don't give when he pulls.

Dylan doesn't know what's going to happen to him, but he knows this: They won't be the first Red Wings team to miss the playoffs in 25 years. It won't happen his rookie year. It won't happen on his watch. Another tentacle pushes at his mouth. Whatever it wants-- Dylan lets his lips part, lets his mouth go slack, and the tentacle slides in. He hopes that helps, that he let it go easy. That he's made it easy, for the-- mascot. The monster. Whatever it is. The tentacle moving in his mouth is nothing like sucking cock, and still similar. He feels it pulse.

The last time he blew Zach they were in Zach's car, and it was dark, parked in the shadows. Zach tugged on Dylan's curls and bit back moans, he stroked light fingertips over the nape of Dylan's neck and told him how much he'd fucking missed him. He felt huge in Dylan's mouth, and when he came he hauled Dylan up right after for a sloppy relief of a kiss.

All he can hear now is the muted slap of the tentacle moving past his lips as it thrusts in and out. Dylan swallows around it and tentatively sucks, tastes sweet. It clings to his tongue but it's good in a sticky way, and he chases the taste. The tentacle pushes further, hitting the back of his throat, and he swallows and swallows until all he can taste is sweet, his lips and mouth coated in it.

Everything is hot. His ears are burning and his face is red and the tentacle in his mouth isn't enough. It's just one and he knows there must be more, at least eight total, and Dylan wants them in him. But wanting it for himself is selfish. He knows that. He wants it for the team.

-

“Did you think it was going to happen like that? Zach asks.

“I don't know what I thought,” Dylan says. “You remember how we heard shit in the NTDP all the time. I didn't know what was true.”

“Like the Joe isn't haunted,” Zach says.

“Right.” Monster mascots aren't the same as ghosts, probably. Dylan curls his toes. “This was so real, Z.”

Zach hums. Dylan keeps talking.

-

The tentacle lashes against the backs of his legs, sharp and stinging. Dylan gasps, or tries to gasp, and chokes on the tentacle that's still in his mouth. He doesn't know if it wants to hit him or if he's supposed to be doing something else. It hits him again, hard enough that he thinks he'll have welts across his thighs, and then-- delicately-- the tentacle traces over the cleft of his ass. It nudges between his thighs, a soft, spongy touch to the skin behind his balls, and Dylan realizes-- his thoughts slow and sweet as honey-- that he should spread his legs.

Dylan inches his knees apart and the tentacle curls around his thighs before it presses against his hole. It feels good. He was waiting for this, he realizes, ever since he opened his mouth and the first tentacle started to fuck his throat. It pushes inside him, just the tip, then trails over the cleft of his ass again, leaving something slick behind. He wonders if it's the same sweet liquid he swallowed down, that made him like this.

The tentacle in his mouth is still pumping in and out, but it's now almost lazy, like it's gotten what it needs, or it's waiting patiently for more.

When the tentacle pushes into him it feels like a sigh. It feels right. It moves slowly, and he feels himself open up around it. Dylan thinks wildly how clearly inhuman it is, and how good, how it's sparking his nerves, lighting him on fire from the inside out.

It presses and presses and then it starts to fuck him, slick and wet, the sound just off from skin on skin. Trembling, he tenses his thighs so he won't fall over.

At least the monster is holding onto him. He closes his eyes again.

His dick is so hard, precome drooling from the tip. Dylan needs something to touch it. The slightest pressure. None of the tentacles touching him will touch his cock. He thinks he can feel it throb in time with his heartbeat. He thinks the tentacles won't touch him on purpose.

-

“I can't believe you're going to make me jerk off in the bathroom,” Zach says. “Because of the Red Wings. Fuck.” There's a sharp inhale. “Are you-- you said I could slide right in if I wanted. Like it would be easy.”

“Yeah.”

“How many fingers? Could you--”

Dylan draws his leg up. The slick, whatever it was, is mostly worn off. He isn't as hot, even if he's getting hard again from telling Zach what happened to him. How he let a monster fuck him for his team. But he's so open that he can tuck three fingers inside himself no problem. It almost isn't enough compared to before, the stretch too simple.

“Three,” he tells Zach. “I could take more.” He puts the phone on speaker and rests it on his chest so he can wrap a hand around the base of his dick. The tentacles were cool to the touch, and his hand is clammy warm.

“You liked it?” Zach asks. “You did, right?”

“Yeah.” Dylan curls his fingers up, chasing sensation. “I came without-- anything. You should have seen. Can't believe I did that.”

-

The monster is relentless. Maybe it should be. He's barely adjusted to one tentacle when he feels the tip of another at his entrance, and he doesn't have the air to protest that it's too much too soon, that he's glad to take one but he doesn't know about two.

There's a new gush of sweet slick in his mouth and he swallows again. Everything is so-- hot, his face is hot and his body is hot. Dylan breathes in through his nose and forces himself to relax. The second tentacle pushes in, and in, and somehow he takes it. He did it, he thinks, and his cock throbs.

It lets go of his hands and he falls over, hands and knees akimbo on the floor. It doesn’t stop fucking him. There are two tentacles in his ass, moving against each other, in him, pressing and pulsing and-- he’s glad it let go of his hands. Dylan’s lost the ability to stay upright.

The tip of one tentacle brushes over his nipple and Dylan tries to gasp again, the sound caught by the one in his mouth. It wants him to come, he thinks. He’s going to come on the logo, and it wants that too.

He’s still so hot.

It starts fucking his mouth again with more purpose than before. There are tentacles wrapped around his shoulders and chest, his wrists, and he'd say please if he could speak, thrust up into the touch if he could move. All he can do is take it. He needs to come. He squeezes his eyes shut against threatening tears. Who knows if the monster will like that he's crying for it, or if it'll think he's undeserving and weak.

Dylan chokes on another gasp. The tentacles press up, up, and the one in his mouth hits the back of his throat until he chokes on it again, trying to moan. He feels them squeeze around his wrists and it's a reminder that he never imagined this happening. Even if he had, he would never have imagined liking it, and oh god, he  _ does _ .

When he comes the monster swallows up all his sounds.

-

“It's different, right? Getting fucked by that thing?”

“Yeah.” Dylan didn't expect this would get Zach off, didn't aim for this when he called. He mostly wanted to let someone know what happened to him-- not his captain. But it's helping him settle the buzz under his skin, the leftover effects of the tentacle slick, and he's always liked messing up Zach's calm facade. “It was slippery, like, inside me. In my mouth too. I was gonna choke on it.”

“You get all red,” Zach murmurs. Dylan wonders if he's still standing or if he's had to sit down. He asks, and Zach says, “Sitting, I-- couldn't.”

He couldn't stand, Dylan thinks. “Do you want me to keep going?”

Zach laughs, stunned. “Obviously.”

He just wanted to hear Zach say it. All the heat inside him won't die down, but this makes it better, knowing that he's not the only one affected. “I wanna tell you how it fucked me.”

Dylan gets a soft choked sound in response. “First it did one, just one of the-- the tentacles, and then it fucked me with two. I could feel them both.”

He's almost all the way hard again. This time it doesn't feel as urgent, but maybe that's because nothing is binding his wrists, stopping him from touching himself. Even if his own touch right now is light and lazy, it's more than he had.

“It was so fucked,” he tells Zach. “It was like, everything, and I just wanted it.”

“I guess you don’t know what you look like,” Zach says. “When you’re gonna come. It’s so--”

Dylan thinks about Zach, and he thinks about the monster, until it’s all tangled, the two of them. Human and stunningly inhuman, both of them wanting him. He knows the patterns of Zach’s breath well enough to know that Zach is close to coming, on the other end of the phone, jerking off in the bathroom of a college library.  

“I wish I could have seen,” Zach says, the edge of of a whine in his voice, something Dylan's heard before a few times. It takes him a moment to realize that it's jealousy.

“I’m thinking how it was different than you fucking me,” he says, rubbing his thumb under the head of his cock before switching back to long, slow strokes. Dylan wants to come but he wants to hear Zach do it first. “Like when you come in me.”

“Oh fuck,” Zach says; he's groaning now, the sounds muffled like he's biting into fabric, his shirt maybe, so he won't be too loud in the library. “Oh my god Dylan, fuck.”

Dylan listens to him, trying to match his own strokes to Zach's breath, thinking about a monster that could somehow hold them both. So they could watch each other, overcome.

He waits until Zach starts to breathe evenly before he says, “Did you--”

“Yeah.” Zach huffs out a laugh. “I'm gonna have to go change soon. You?”

“Not yet.” Dylan pinches his nipples. They're still twinging, sore from the tentacles rubbing over them.

“Tell me what you're thinking about.”

“Oh.” He digs a fingernail into his nipple. He's chasing something and he doesn't know what and it might be out of reach. “Uh. What happened today, but. If you were there and it, like, had both of us.”

“Shit.”

“If you could watch me and then I could watch you, maybe.” Dylan presses up with his fingers again, brings his other hand back down from his chest to his cock. He needs more in him, but he thinks he'll be able to come. Jerking himself off hard and fast helps too, the edge of it curling in his gut.

“You'd look good,” Zach says, encouraging.

“Or it might fuck us both at the same time. I guess it could do that if it wanted.” Both of them caught, open. “We could watch each other.” He wants to be that desperate again. He wants to watch Zach be that desperate with him.

For now he'll take it, getting off with Zach on the other end of the phone. He's close, heat pooling in his belly. “I need--” Dylan says. “Fuck.”

“Uh,” Zach says. “Maybe you would-- I don't know exactly, but I could suck you while the-- tentacles, while it fucked you. That'd be--” he swallows, takes a breath. “Like we'd be surrounded.”

Dylan thinks about the heat of Zach's mouth on him and the cool foreign slick of the tentacles moving inside him. He comes, jizz streaking over his stomach, and he thinks he says Zach's name, but he might not say any words at all.

-

Zetterberg pulls the mask off and Dylan blinks up at him. “I'm done?” he asks, and bites his lip against the urge to say more. He's frankly surprised he hasn't passed out.

“You should shower,” Zetterberg says. Dylan assumes that's a yes. “You'll feel better once you shower. I brought clothes for you.” He hands over a long-sleeved shirt and sweats. Dylan doesn't know where they came from, if they belong to him or Z. He doesn't really care. He takes the clothes, then the hand Zetterberg offers him, and manages to pull himself upright. There's no way he isn't covered in come, in tentacle slick, but Zetterberg keeps his eyes on Dylan's face, and for that he's grateful.

“No one is here to see,” Zetterberg says. “We can take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Home,” Dylan says. He lurches a little, and Zetterberg steadies him, one hand big and warm on Dylan's bare arm.

In the shower he feels bare and sensitized under the hot water. He scrubs as much as he can off his skin, but all the soap in the world won't get rid of the haze, the sweet taste in the back of his teeth, the arousal still in his veins. But the shower helps. He pulls on the clothes and heads back out. Zetterberg is waiting, scrolling through his phone, nestled in a hoodie. Dylan is loose and floppy and wants to touch-- someone, anyone. He does his best to hold back. He thinks Zetterberg must remember that feeling, though, because he takes Dylan's elbow to guide him out of the arena even though by now he knows the way.

They slide into the backseat of a black car. Zetterberg leans forward and murmurs Dylan's address, then sits back. Their elbows and knees are touching and Dylan is grateful for that steadying presence by his side.

Thankfully, it's a short car ride. Zetterberg gets out, walks him to the door, takes his keys when he fumbles them. “Will you go to sleep?” he asks.

“Gonna call Zach.” Dylan flushes-- maybe he isn't supposed to-- but Zetterberg just smiles at him. He guesses it's kosher.

“Try to sleep,” Zetterberg says. Dylan doesn't know how he's supposed to say goodbye in this situation, but Zetterberg clasps his arm for a long moment, lets Dylan lean into the touch, watches him until he's made it to the bedroom. It's enough.

-

After their next weekend game, a few days later, Zetterberg takes him out for dinner. He's picked out a nice restaurant, ordered an expensive bottle of wine, steaks for them both, multiple sides. It feels like the rookie dinner except Dylan isn't paying. When Dylan asks the occasion, Zetterberg says, “This was done for me,” and shrugs. Dylan drops it. 

They don't talk about what happened. Which is fine. Sometimes when Dylan is alone with Zetterberg he remembers who exactly he is, and how long he’s admired him, and how he’s definitely jerked it to his NHL captain. Telling Zetterberg that getting fucked by a tentacle monster went pretty well does not seem like something Dylan can do.

Instead they talk about what’ll need to happen in the playoffs. Knowing they’ll make them, that this isn’t the year-- it helps.

When they're waiting for the check Zetterberg says, “If you need anything you will call me, yes?” Technically it's phrased as a question, but Dylan knows it isn't.

“Yeah, sure-- will I?”

“Questions about the playoffs, maybe.” Zetterberg smiles at him.

“Oh. Yeah.” He will, he's sure. The NHL playoffs are nothing like the U18s or the NCAA conference tournament, and it'll be good to know what to expect.

He won't ask Zetterberg how long he thought about it after. How long before he stopped dreaming about tentacles in him, sliding in his mouth and pressing up inside. Probably it goes away. The playoffs only last a few months, even if they go all the way.

He and Zach talked about it on the phone together a night ago, both of them coming at almost the exact same time.

“Thanks,” Dylan adds. “For, you know. Everything.”

Zetterberg squeezes his shoulder. “No,” he says. “We're keeping the streak one more year. That's on you.” He doesn't move his hand. “And do let me know if you have questions. Like I said, it's a very different beast.”

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has: dylan getting fucked by a tentacle monster, with little information beforehand, under the influence of mind-control aphrodisiacs. consent is very, very dubious. if there are any tags/warnings that I missed, please let me know.


End file.
